The Ceremony of Innocence, formerly: Pied Piper
by kangeiko
Summary: There is a little darkness in everyone, even if it is not readily apparent. A series of stories set in the fifth year, centering around our heroes' perceptions of Severus Snape. Eventual Severus / Sirius.
1. The Pied Piper

TITLE: THE PIED PIPER

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JK Rowling does.

SUMMARY: There is a little darkness in everyone, even if it is not readily apparent. Dumbledore POV.

RATING: R for darkness. This ain't a happy fic, kiddies.

PAIRING: None. Well, not yet, anyway.

SERIES: Story 1 in 'The Ceremony of Innocence'. Story 2 is called 'Speak No Evil'.

ARCHIVE: List archives fine, everyone else ask first, please.

THANKS TO: My wonderful beta-readers. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own fault. Special thanks to Monika for remembering a whole lot more about Harry Potter continuity than I could ever hope to, and for saving me from some pretty big inconsistencies that I hadn't even realised I had created.

NOTES:

1. The 'quotation from a famous Muggle' that Dumbledore alludes to is, of course, Nietzsche's famous 'if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you'.

2. Not entirely sure why this fic ended up being so sinister. I was just going to go for angst and h/c. It didn't end up that way. Eh. Actually, this was inspired by a Newsweek article on the use of child soldiers (aged 14 and up) in one of the Middle Eastern conflicts, so grimness WARNINGS are being given now.

SPOILERS: This is set relatively soon after GoF, so mild spoilers for anything concerning Voldemort and Snape.

We failed.

That you must understand – first and foremost, we failed. All of us, to the last one, failed in our duty to protect the children. We swore that we would do it, and we failed. Completely. Utterly.

Oh, I know that the history books don't show that. They're full of the ecstatic news that amid all the death there was one survivor: The Boy Who Lived, despite all the mistakes we made. They don't speak of all those other children we failed to protect, all those young lives we ruined simply by not being there when we were needed. Simply by standing idly by while Voldemort worked his evil.

Slytherins. Crafty, suspicious, ambitious, willing to kill for him. But still, despite all that, they were children. They looked to us – to me – for guidance, and they were failed. We handed them to Voldemort and then explained our actions away; we justified with tired, small words the brutal act of cutting a swathe through children with magic they could not hope to resist or survive.

One by one, those Death Eater children – recruited from our classrooms, from the dorm rooms we thought were so safe - fell and burned on the ground, writhing in pain, utterly ignored by the 'heroes' that cut them down and left them to die alone. We did not teach them enough. They were too young, far, far too young to know enough about Defence to stand a chance. They did not even know that the Avada Kedavra curse is not the only one to kill. It is simply the one you cannot block. There are many others, equally as deadly, but if you are strong and powerful, you can block them. Dodge them. Escape them.

Not, of course, if you are a seventeen-year-old boy, out to earn your Dark Mark and suddenly in the middle of an ambush. Many adults would be too frightened to move. What hope does a child of seventeen have? He would be cut down, of course, by wizards ignorant of the almost-hairless face behind that Death Eater mask, worn so that the Aurors that child would have to fight would not know that Voldemort – Our Lord Who Must Not Be Named – had stooped to using mere children as canon fodder.

Why should that surprise us? More importantly, why should that surprise me? I knew Tom, as a child and as a youth. I knew what he was capable of. I knew him as an adult, and I knew what he expected of others. I knew what he would expect them to be capable of, the depths he would expect them to sink to. Death was something unspeakable for him – a fact that other people would have to endure but something that he would not condescend to think about. Once you are convinced of your own immortality, there is little that can hurt you. Did we really expect him to shed tears over his dead followers?

Did I really expect any of our 'heroes' to do that? Our wonderful 'heroes', so brave when faced with the prospect of slaughtering children... did anyone really expect them to ask forgiveness for their sins? It was so easy to simply go home, covered in glory, bragging about the many Death Eaters one had killed and describe their last moments. It was so easy to ignore the screaming child behind the crisping, burning mask, the flow of childblood from beneath skin that was far, far too smooth and soft and new, and those last soft cries… Oh, Merlin, those last cries of death. Not for Our Lord of Darkness. Not for Merlin, or even God, but, Merlin help me, for Mummy. For Daddy. For big sis or the dear older brother who had dragged them into this and had left them to die here, their skin charred and blackened and crisping up over perfectly white teeth as they screamed and screamed and screamed for the adults that had sworn to protect them.

This time, it was those very same protectors that were doing the damage. It did not matter whether they were the ones who convinced a fourteen-year-old child to touch a Portkey and kneel in Voldemort's presence, whether they were the ones branding a youth of seventeen with the Dark Mark, or whether they were the ones who grabbed these Death Eater children – the first to fall, of course, and so terribly expendable - and dragged them off viciously to be detained and questioned. It did not matter, because there wasn't much difference in the end. It was still the adults who were killing them, bit by bit, as they waited patiently for the information that never came because the children did not know. Did any of these adults – some of them hailed as heroes by us now - feel any guilt? I'm sure of it. Torture is never a pleasurable activity, perhaps even for an Auror who is tired and jaded and has lost friends and family to Our Lord of Fear. Even for those ones, so empty inside that it is doubtful if they can be called 'human', human life is sacred. Or, it should be. Should be, even to an Auror. Even to a hero.

So many have accused me of being a Muggle-lover. Of holding their beliefs dearer to me that those of pureblood wizards. They never stop to ask me why this is so... why the screams of a child should trouble me. They never wonder why I do not befriend many Aurors and what I see in the eyes of the ones I do get close to. They never ask why I am sickened by the fact that Aurors have such wondrous rights, such freedom, when the innocents they are supposed to be protecting have none. Can even an Auror believe that a fourteen-year-old girl, be she a Slytherin or not, really felt the need to flay one of her former classmates? Perhaps they can. Perhaps such a child exists. Should the child be blamed, or should that blame be reserved for the adults that did not teach her that it is wrong to want such things? What makes such a child the villain, and the Auror that flays her in turn, the hero? History, of course. Written not by the victors, but by those on the sidelines who did little or nothing to help either side and then changed history to better please their new masters.

One by one, each parent takes me to one side and asks why I am so friendly, why I make friends with the children. It is strange how these wizards and witches all manage to make it sound like a failing to have any gentler emotions or, Merlin forbid, any rapport at all with their offspring. Strange, how they expected me to be tough, strong and fierce, able to protect their children should the Dark Lord return. Protect them from what? Themselves?

Each child that arrives at my school knows, long before they put a foot inside the Hall, what reputation each House has. They all have an idea of where they want to end up – or, at least, which House they would hate to be placed in. They all know that Griffyndors are considered brave – but mostly by fellow Gryffindors, whereas to the rest, they are wastefully foolhardy. They know that the Slytherins are all dark, ambitious and slippery as the snake on their crest, except if they are a Slytherin themselves. Then they speak of House pride, of protecting their families, of wanting to make something of themselves. Each House looks after its members and shuns the rest, more or less. And who suffers worse than the Slytherins? Hundreds of children, whose only crime was to be Sorted into a different House than their schoolmates, are told for seven years that they are slimy, unreliable and Dark.

A small, pale, almost painfully shy boy, and almost perfect for the task at hand, he was no different in that respect. A Slytherin, of course, told from the moment he stepped into the Great Hall that he was ruthless and ambitious, that he had Darkness in him.

Where on Earth could an eleven-year-old child possibly keep this 'Darkness' everyone was so sure existed? Where could he find the space on that tiny body of his, so impossibly thin that he looked like he would break in half if you so much as breathed on him? I did not understand it then.

I do now, of course. It wasn't Darkness the Hat saw in him. It was strength. Enough strength to save us... enough strength to last, at least for a little while. I was a fool. What is a child's strength when a child cannot think past tomorrow, let alone ten years ahead? What is a child's strength when confronted with something he doesn't understand?

Many have told me that I am a fool to have a former Death Eater working for me. They see the man and judge him by deeds done when he was not yet aware of how they would stain his consciousness. I cannot do so; I would never dream of trying. But you, you who would judge him and his past deeds, you tell me, then, who is to blame? The pale, dark-haired child who stood in my office bleeding, holding a knife and sobbing after trying to cut out the Dark Mark burned forever into his arm, or the adult that failed to prevent this from happening? Find us a spy, the Ministry said to me. Find us a spy so that we will know what the Dark Lord is planning.

Find us a child to do our suffering for us.

After all, what matters if he fails? He is a Slytherin. He might have returned to Darkness in any case.

Shameful, shameful thoughts that no one would admit to, but that is what they thought. Find us a child, Albus, so that we may all be saved. Find us a child willing to take on this responsibility. Find us a child so that he may be above suspicion. An adult entering the ranks, however dark his record previously, would be instantly under suspicion. But who, in their right mind, would suspect a child?

They did not stop to ask what kind of person would send a child to a war zone. Voldemort had done so; it seemed logical to them, even to me, to retaliate in kind. Voldemort had taken our children from us, and so we had to strike back at him with a properly ironic weapon… one of those same children, turning on his former master. No one stopped to question whether defeat was preferable to victory at whatever cost.

Look for long into an abyss, a famous Muggle had once said, and the abyss will look back into you.

I have looked into the abyss. It is in the eyes of a sixteen-year-old boy, clutching a kitchen knife and sobbing into my shoulder that it hurt, it hurt unbearably, pleading with me to make it stop. It still resides there, in eyes now aged hundreds of years despite their owner's relative youth, still staring back into my soul. Still accusative, still clutching that knife and still demanding to know why, of all people, he had been chosen to go back into the Darkness. He had already made his choice, turning his back on his friends and his Housemates, turning his back on all that he had known to return to the Light. After making one of the hardest choices a child could make, why had he been taken to one side by me, his protector, and asked to sacrifice himself for the greater good?

He did not ask this at first, of course. The questions came later, when it was much to late to make a difference. He could very well have assumed that any who returned from Voldemort's side would have done, and that he had been the most expendable. There wasn't anyone around to dissuade him from that... not even me, the famous Albus Dumbledore, friend to children everywhere. What could I say? It was more or less true. He was chosen because he was likely to remain loyal to me, smart enough to succeed... and alone enough not to be missed too much if he failed. I could do nothing. And so, he was sent off to wait, and to listen, and to have the Dark Mark burned into his skin, with a bag of Chocolate Frogs tucked into his schoolbag. The proper 'compensation' for the child sacrifice he would be forced to make. What uses have children of money or of fame among tired, boring old men?

It took him months to finally be accepted into the Death Eater ranks, months to finally be trusted and to have a brand burned into his skin as recognition of a kill made and enjoyed. So many sleepless nights in that time during which time I could have saved him. I could have protected him. I could have spared him somehow, shown the tiniest semblance of mercy. I did none of those things, simply waiting. Doing what I was told. Following orders.

Just as he did. What is the courage of a child in the face of a gauntlet – an ancient exercise in viciousness and brutality? What is a child's courage in the face of an oath that would bind him or break him? What kind of courage allows those things?

It's simple, really. The kind who still believes that, somewhere out there, there is at least one grown up, one adult, still looking out for him. Still protecting him. How can you atone for such a dreadful, frightening untruth, told to a child who could not conceive of you lying to him?

Months passed, and yet I did nothing. Years passed during which time he was a part of Them. He did what dozens of adult Aurors had refused to do and gave himself to the shadows and to the Darkness, letting it enter his soul. Dozens and dozens of trained Aurors, ready to die, if need be, for the greater good, but not ready to sully themselves by giving themselves to Voldemort. Ready to kill youth after youth wrapped in black cloth and wearing a mask so they would not have to think of them as children, but not ready to let someone burn Darkness into their skin with a brand.

A child cannot be a hero, the Ministry tells me. Especially not that child, presented with the Order of Merlin only upon my insistence. A child cannot be a hero because a child does not understand danger, or what is right and wrong. And besides – always said with a hint of a sneer - that child – and he couldn't really be called a child, he was seventeen years old now, almost a man - probably enjoyed the death he had to inflict to maintain his cover. He was a Slytherin, after all.

Almost a man. Almost. Almost, except for the lack of shaving each day. Almost, except for the delight in small things. Almost, except for asking my advice as if my opinion counted more to him than his own in small things, silly things, things that should not have mattered. Children do that. Adults do not.

Yet it did not occur to me to point this out. It did not occur to me to ask the Ministry how they could dismiss heroism so easily, but could not let villainy go unpunished. I did not ask how someone that wore gloves to prevent blood spattering him, and burned children from the inside out, was a hero, but a child who had let someone brand him was not.

Maybe not so strange. Who wants, after all, to have to deal with so many victims? Who wants to have to try and disable, but not kill? Who wants to arrive at their office and find a child bleeding on the carpet, eyes hard and dark and so, so, angry? Who wants to have to explain why it was them, why it had to be them and not someone who was older, better trained, who had chosen this and had known what they were doing?

Would an Auror choose to try to remove a Death Mark received unwillingly? Of course. Would they be so helpless, so disgusted, so frightened of what it represented and what they had been forced to do to earn it that they would try and slice their own skin off after magic failed them?

Look me in the eyes and tell me that, if you truly believe it. Look me in the eyes and tell me that I am a hero; that I did what had to be done and made necessary sacrifices to make sure that the Darkness did not win.

Tell me it was worth it.

Tell me that the sacrifice of a child was worth the lives of all those old men at the Ministry who have already lived full, rich lives; that an orphaned baby boy can truly be a hero. We need our heroes now, you see. Even if they are children. Another war is coming; Our Lord of Darkness and of children's tears is returning soon. We need heroes to do our fighting for us; what does it matter what age they are? Train them young, I'm told. Train them young and make them loyal to us. It does not matter that they are still children, for a child, at least, would not shrink from killing other children simply because they are children. Power is not an issue, not when potions can be brewed and poison poured and confidences betrayed. Even children can cause death and destruction, and so we must be on guard and plan for this. The children will understand, they tell me. They will understand because only a child would understand the responsibilities of a hero that an adult would find empty and silent. A child would hate anyone trying to tell him otherwise, that he is normal, that 'being heroic' and remembered as such by his peers doesn't mean everything, that he really, really does not wish to be a hero. Because this child – whether he be ten or fourteen or eighteen - wishes it. Because every child wishes it.

And because, in the end, children do not listen to their elders except when bribed to do so with false promises of chocolate and of respect from their peers.

I feel dark eyes watching me every moment, soft words forever trying to convince me to send this child away, to expel him, to let him be ordinary. I do not listen, of course. Our former hero – or is that villain? – is still entirely too trusting of me, entirely too sure of my goodness and heroism. He still cuts himself open in the privacy of his own rooms, still trying to remove the brand that marks him as a villain rather than a victim. He does not cry on my shoulder anymore, for which I am grateful. I am not entirely certain of what I would do if he did.

Besides, he still has a job to do. I care for him enough to tell him what that job entails; what he is expected to do. He agrees, of course, with that same look in his eyes of tired and entirely too trusting resignation. He still thinks of me as his saviour, it seems. Why else would he agree to this? Why else would he stop trying to convince me to send The Boy Who Lived home, whether it be covered with glory or in disgrace? He knows that the boy, too, has a job to do; he has learnt his lessons well. He stays silent, while, once more, the world cries out for a hero. And, once more, I thrust forward a child not expected to survive.

The Boy Who Lived. Will anyone remember his death?

There is still the faint scent of copper in my office, of blood and of tears and of so many healing spells gone wrong. There is still a bloodied knife wrapped in Slytherin-green cloth locked in my safe. Once more, they ask me for a hero. It will not be the last time. We must be prepared; if not Our Lord of Darkness, then someone else will always be there, waiting in the wings to take over. And the Ministry cannot allow that. Think of the children, they say, each time someone objects. Think of the lives we would save.

And so the parents think. They think of their own children, their flesh and blood, in danger from frightening, unnamed slivers of Darkness. They wonder about what lies under those Death Eater masks, not for once imagining a fresh-faced youngster. They think of the dangers their offspring are exposed to, and they ask me why I do not prepare their children for battle. They ask me why I am so warm and so friendly. What can I say to them?

My dears, how else am I going to convince your child to sacrifice his life for us?

fin


	2. Speak No Evil

"Speak No Evil"

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JKR does. I bet they're pretty relieved about that.

SUMMARY: Sirius Black's POV. After he catches Severus engaging in a very private activity, Sirius joins him, in an effort to stave off the madness that still lingers around him since his imprisonment in Azkaban.

PAIRING: Severus/Sirius. Sorta. Possibly. In a twisted way.

RATING: Exceedingly strong R. Tread with caution.

SERIES: Second in "The Ceremony of Innocence". Sequel to "The Pied Piper".

ARCHIVE: No.

THANKS TO: My lovely, wonderful and un-squickable betas, who saved you from the first draft of this. :-)

The words bled into each other.

My vision is still blurred after twelve years of darkness, but despite that I could tell. I could feel it. My hand trembled as I braced myself against his bare back and blinked rapidly. All those beautiful words I had torturously carved pulsed beneath my fingers and bled into each other, mocking my efforts to keep them coherent.

There was one thing I hadn't tried yet; there was one binding I had not attempted. I pressed my mouth to his open back, almost falling, almost drowning, almost in control as I lapped hungrily at the slow throb of blood there.

Beneath me, Severus gave one choked sob, more of surprise than of pain, then shuddered and stilled.

Cold metal nestled in his flesh, bleeding ice into his veins. I felt him shudder as it seeped deep into the marrow of his bones.

My tongue found the torn flesh, the deep gash of rendered muscle and sinew, and probed deep. I sighed a little as I felt the flesh beneath me tense, wholly merciless in my enjoyment. I am not sorry for this.

He had been so silent, you see, so perfectly, gloriously still while my world froze in time and blood dripped down my fingers. I could have spent years like this, leaning in too far, breathing it all in, all that copper and fire and spilled, torn power. It was so intoxicating, and he was so still... he only cried out once, when my hands, slick and slippery with blood, slipped and drove the razor down to leave a long gash on one of his ribs. I froze instantly, of course, while he trembled and keened softly. Whether it was a sound of pleasure or pain I could not tell and did not care.

So delicious to savour that. So sweet. But there was finally too much blood spilling down his back, washing away all of my hard work, and there was only one way, really, of stopping it.

And, if I must be truthful, it was simply too much to resist.

Torn sinew and scraped bone and that sweet, spicy smell of copper, as I latched on to the wound as if I could devour him, as if his suffering was a feast.

Can you doubt that it was?

I hated him. I still do, maybe... maybe. Can anyone resist this? Can anyone not forgive after this? That he'd allow me to do such things to him... that he'd bare his back and throw back his head to expose a long column of vulnerable throat and not flinch, not at the first cut nor at the tracing of spidery words, deliquescing down his back in rivulets.

I would love him and loathe him if it was all for me. Thank Merlin that it was not. It was not. I owed him nothing.

I found him, you see. His wrists still bleed through the deep grooves I saw him cut, mouth thinned in pain and pupils dilated with pleasure. His robes were already stained with shed blood and unmentioned, unspoken tears. I did not start this. I cannot claim the credit for it. I am not responsible.

Artless to confess, really, the thoughts that sprung, unbidden. Artless and pitiless to confess listening to the harshly strung echoes of his rage plucking at him, ringing in the grotesque silence all around.

How can I show you what I saw? How can I confess desire for something so frightening and destructive?

There was silence in him then, as now, and a savage kind of beauty. There was elegance and shadows in that helpless, sneering rictus of despair. There was... oh, there was so much more. So much more to explain when I cannot explain at all, when I cannot even bear to think of it.

Such linear, pale and withered lives we lead that all thought and all speech must be heard. Such sheltered lives for such innocent children, all taught that magic centres on a wand, that darkness is born, not awakened, that good always wins and that talking is better than violence. I remember that being the way it was, years ago. I remember, later, curling my mouth and my thoughts around rasping, painful sounds, forcing pain into words of hope so that they would not be taken from me. Each memory, each splinter of joy, I tore to pieces and remade in the image of pain. It was truly a torment of my own devising. The laughter of the Yule Ball rung false for it to be remembered; Lily became dark and sharp, a sliver of night, so I could recall her face. Harry's infant laughter was gifted to a smiling Peter, all so I could remember that he did laugh, sometimes, even if it was not for me.

All these images of pain and darkness, just so I would not forget. Twelve years of self-centred, spiralling, helpless needless pain. I still wake up in the night, screaming at the sight of Remus in pieces, eyes staring at me accusingly. I did that... and all so I could remember his face.

How can I live in the light again? How can I form words of love without shredding my palms open? How can I protect the children under my care without imagining them dead by my hand, without summoning guilt and rage just so that I can remember their faces?

Language is a curious, sadistic thing. It doesn't matter if we try to shape it through our usage, as it is by far more powerful than anything we could hope to be. We do not shape it; it shapes us, in ways we cannot begin to comprehend. Once you have the thought, the word, the concept of something, is there really that far to fall in doing?

I was not going to stop him, you see. I hated him -- why-ever would I stop him? Maybe after he passed out from the loss of blood and I had committed the sight of him crumpled and so, so splintered to memory. One image of pain, at least, that I knew was true.

I would not help him until he could not see who it was that saved him. It would be such an appropriate punishment, so sweet and so slow and so unbearably dark...

He saw me. He saw me and said nothing and did not stop.

He knew.

It was there, in the hollow of his cheekbones, in the red of his blood. He knew what I wanted before I did and did not condemn me for it. Such a curious, curious gift to give, when you have nothing left to you but your pride, with even that bleeding out on the cold stone floor. Such a self-less thing to give, and what a fool I had been -- what a martyr I had imagined myself to be!

Well... perhaps I still am. Pride was one thing no one cared to take from me. I still feel unspeakable thoughts beating in me, still unspoken, screaming for release.

Twelve years of darkness, of nightmares of my own creation. Twelve years of silence, of talking to myself and screaming myself hoarse when even those thoughts were taken from me. Twelve years of clawing my thighs and my chest, of trying to remember something good amid all the pain. We are all creatures of habit, and it plagues us still.

I'm a free man, they tell me. But do free men dread things that aren't real? Do free men weep into the night for reasons they can't explain because these things did not happen, because they did not kill their best friends, despite what the mind insists?

It's such a little thing that I want. Such a small thing. I don't want an end to the pain... I just want to know which pain is mine and what I created from shadows and dust. What did I really do, amid all that I believe I've done?

Severus was so still, sitting there, his hand caressing the flow of blood from his forearm. So still, and so sure of himself... there was complete control in that small movement. He had done that to himself, he had done that, and nobody else.

And I knew, then, what I wanted to do. Who I wanted to talk to, what silent things I wanted to say. I knew who would understand... who would let me do things my mind says I've done already.

I think I sobbed, once, watching him, and he froze. Looked at me. And I picked up a razor and knelt behind him, stroking his back and his flanks. Talk to me. Talk with me. Let me do something real...

Silent and calm, he unclasped his robes and let them pool around his waist. I did nothing for a long moment, just watching the pale expanse of canvas that was his back.

I remember brushing his hair to one side to expose the back of his neck, to stroke him there with trembling fingers. I remember him shuddering and fighting to keep still, even as my hand moved higher to that sweet spot just below the skull, so delicate and vulnerable even in this angry, armoured man. I remember digging in scarred fingertips and having him thrust back against me; a gasp quickly stifled.

I remember the first cut, feather-light and stinging. I remember the first trickle of blood, one slow pulse after another, so blindingly real and red against his white skin.

Such beautiful words I spoke, carving pity and rage and something indefinable in him, uncaring of his reasons. What did I care why he had allowed me to do this, only that he had? There was such sweet, helpless sadism I discovered in myself, cherished now that I had an outlet that savoured pain as much as myself. There is so much terror in possibility, you see, far more so than in certainty. So much more terror in wondering what I might do here in this sanctuary, in this school, for Merlin's sake, if ever I let go. I found such sweet, delicious joy in the simple act of speaking, writing, cutting thoughts I had not dared voice before into someone... talking to someone I had hated for so many years.

I can still hate him, right? I can hate him and still be grateful for finding him here, a silent, strict, frightening saviour for these children even if he does not know it yet. I can thank him for being here and for letting me do this to him so I would not have to wonder what Harry's blood would look like as it cools in the evening air, so I would not have to dream such terrible possibilities anymore. He will live here, as broken and splintered as I, and my mark will be on him. My own brand of darkness, sealed into his flesh. I can love this gift of his, can I not? I can love the gift and maybe grow to not hate the giver; more should not be asked because that is all I can give in return.

We do such strange things out of desperation. It takes all that I am to trace forgiveness into his back, sweet, hopeful lies I hoped to bind in blood and make true. "Ramasses mer," I whispered to him, raising sticky fingers to his mouth and watching him lick at the drying blood. Such terrible, terrible lies to be found in such hope ... "Severus ankh djet."

He laughed at that, deep and throaty and despairing of the untruth and the hope in it. He laughed, but did not protest the gift, and that alone gave me hope. I could make it true. I could. I carved the glyphs into his flesh; licked the blood from his cuts. He shuddered at my touch, groaning as I whispered binding charms and wrote on him ownership that I dared not admit otherwise; hope that I dared not vocalise.

So pleasing dialogue is, after over a decade of solitude. So comforting companionship is, especially that of despairing kindred.

A column of hope carved torturously down his back, bled white and red, stained and sticky and pale after it was licked clean. Asclepio, once, twice, and the cuts vanished, leaving nothing behind except spidery white scars, glowing hot in recognition of ownership and shared pain.

Still bare to the waist, he turned to me, waiting. His face was blotchy, as if he had bled tears. I did not ask; it was none of my concern. He was none of my concern. I could leave now. I could leave him here; half wrapped in stained robes, leave him and deny this, despite my name and promise glowing hotly on his back. I could leave him here in a pool of his own blood and misery. I could ignore him. I could hurt him as deeply as I wanted.

There is such terror in possibilities, is there not?

I stayed, for I am not a coward and I am not merciful... with others or with myself.

In that sick moment of pure clarity I knew, then, that it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

I had cut him open and bound him to me -- I would remember him as he truly is, not a twisted, tormented figment. No, Severus could always create his own torment; he did not need my hands and cold metal for that. And had this not been something beyond torment? Something so sweet, savoured, grasped and stroked and unexplained? I had bound him to me. I had cut my name into his flesh, watched it seep into his veins and bleed down his back, and I knew that it was all for nothing if he did not acknowledge me. It would mean nothing talking to him, speaking such terrible, beautiful words to him unless he gave some small sign that it made sense. That I wasn't crazy yet.

It could not be dialogue until --

I smiled and waited.

He paused for a long moment, then reached out and unclasped my robes, slipping a cool, long-fingered hand inside, tracing the edge of my collarbone. "What do you want in return?"

No 'thank you's, of course. He did not want to owe me anything; was willing to do whatever I asked so he would have no cause to regret this.

I, too, had one choice left.

I handed him a fresh razor and turned my back, thinking of dark walls and silence and breathless, choking screams during the night. Talk to me. Talk to me, oh please, make me believe you're real...

There was the briefest silence, the smallest moment of deep dark satisfaction, and then he traced his answer across my back with icy fingertips. I knew what he was going to say before he leaned in and nuzzled my neck. "Sic transit gloria deperationis," he mouthed, and pulled away.

A shudder of surprise, because there is that in me, yes, but I had not expected him to see it. I had not expected him to have no pity whatsoever, to banish it all, to try and purge the whole damn thing... I had not expected it, but I should have. He is so ruthless with himself; why should I think of him not being so to me? Why did I think that he would let me wallow in my own darkness?

Damn him for knowing what I wanted without me saying it. Damn him for saying all the right things... perfect, slick, smooth words, ordinary and beautiful and so, so cutting. Damn him for having no pity, for daring me to live.

Merlin damn him, because I cannot find it in myself to do so.

You know, Lily always used to say that talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity. It's funny how, as Severus scrapes me with a silent kiss and begins to carve a pitiless answer into my flesh, I feel better with each bruised word.

So many unspeakable thoughts, and still all unspoken to the waking world.

Outside it is still dark, and I am still not sure which of my nightmares is real. But at least I am not alone... not as long as I have someone to talk to.

fin

NOTES:

1. "Ramases mer, Severus ankh djet" is Egyptian - the phonetic of 11-12th Dynasty glyphs, which is what Sirius carved into Severus's back. It literally means: "Beloved of the Light, Severus living forever."

2. "Sic transit gloria desperationis" - this is Latin, as a few would undoubtedly have recognised. It means, "thus passes the glory of despair." It's a bit heartless, especially to someone who has good reason to wallow, but that's our Sev.

3. I'm reasonably sure that the Asclepio charm is some other author's invention, possibly J. L. Matthews, and not canon. Someone please correct me if I'm wrong.


	3. Poppies

TITLE: POPPIES

DISCLAIMER: I own them not.

SUMMARY: In the rain and sleet of early November, Hermione Granger pins a paper poppy to her chest.

SERIES: Third in "The Ceremony of Innocence". Sequel to "Speak No Evil".

RATING: All of PG-13. See, I can write children's stories... ducks 

PAIRING: Severus Snape/Sirius Black for the series.

ARCHIVE: no.

Revised 19 October 2003.

(YEAR FIVE: NOVEMBER)

_We are the hollow men_

_We are the stuffed men_

We are the men and women the world forgot.

We are the boys and girls of generation Y,

forever locked in small safe boxes of delight.

We are being groomed for a fight.

We are the boys on broomsticks and girls with wands;

we are the children smiling vacantly,

eyes filled with glass and heads with straw.

No innocence is left in these young heads,

No safety for the children asleep in their beds.

Their eyes, hard and glassy like marbles of snow,

are those not of children but of soldiers - ready to go,

ready to face what must be faced.

They not know what – the scripts of their hearts have been defaced

with obscene graffiti, vile slogans of hate –

just that it deserves its fate.

My innocence, too, is behind a hundred locks,

forever lost in a small, inviolate box.

Four days have passed since a speeding car killed a child –

four since I, too, stopped being mild.

A child!

As if I can call it that.

As if it was human –

hardly more sentient than a hat.

Yet it looked like one,

talked like one,

bled like one on the ground –

it certainly screamed like one until it was found .

Tonight and only for tonight

I, too, am those hollow men,

poppy pinned to my chest.

I am those hollow men,

walking three abreast.

I am an army of destruction,

walking calmly through the night.

I walk,

eyes open,

straw spilling,

into the fight.

I am those hollow men,

poppy bleeding on my chest.

I am those hollow men,

poppy crushed to my breast.

Walking down the street

I wear a poppy for the dead;

there are buzzards

circling expectantly overhead.

There is a knock at the door,

poppies falling slowly to the floor.

"Buy a poppy for the veterans tomorrow?"

Do not listen. Do not manufacture sorrow.

Buy a poppy for the veterans.

Buy a poppy for our honoured dead.

"I won't buy a poppy to support one Muggle shot dead."

Blink slowly, lazily, eyes almost asleep.

Blink slowly, lazily, half disbelieving at the poppy on my chest.

Watch it weep.

"Buy a poppy for the veterans, Malfoy."

Buy it, you stupid, selfish boy.

Buy it for that dead child.

Buy it, for its shrieks, so wild - !

Buy for the Sunday we must all Remember.

Buy it, on this dreadful evening in November.

"Buy it for the War heroes. For the dead."

Buy it, or I'll feed you to the buzzards overhead.

Do one good thing, Malfoy,

have one last stab at unmitigated joy.

What better joy than to join in mourning?

What else will we do, tomorrow morning?

So many wars the Muggles know nothing of.

So many wars. So many dead.

It is a very small drop of blood

they acknowledge as having been shed.

So much they remain blissfully unaware of –

so many things they would otherwise despair of.

Let them remain innocent, for as long as they can.

Let them slow down one car, one van –

let them save one child –

but not that one, already defiled,

lying shattered on the ground.

Not that one.

It has already been found.

I saw it -

its simulacrum mouth

hanging open in shock,

plate of glass buried deep in its chest.

I saw poppies bleed red over its breast.

I saw dark, wiry hair spilling on the ground.

I saw its parents, screaming when it was found.

I saw magic and illusion cast a dreadful spell

those four dreadful days ago.

I saw it all, and wept behind a closed door.

I am the hollow men.

I am the stuffed men,

headpiece filled with lies.

I am a simulacrum

and it is me,

the mirror of the one that dies

each night.

I am a hollow man,

a hollow mind,

no longer quite right.

I no longer sleep through the night.

It will fade, I am told,

more with each passing moment.

It will fade until it is no more.

I will be myself again.

I will be alive again.

I will laugh and smile and sleep each night.

I will not wake up, shaking with fright.

I will not watch myself die in slow motion: the car did not stop! –

I will not watch my body slowly, slowly drop.

The ground must have felt cold

and hard

and abrasive.

It must have hurt.

I bled.

I watched myself bleed

through unseen, invisible eyes,

hidden beneath a cloak.

I watched in slow motion

as I died by inches,

mouth open and red.

I watched myself until I was dead.

"Buy a poppy, Malfoy."

Buy it, you stupid boy.

"Buy it out of respect."

Be a little more circumspect.

Don't you know that I am one of those dead?

Don't you know you have my death too, on your head?

Don't you know that there was a funeral, quiet and small?

Don't you know that I hid and watched it all?

Buy a damned poppy, Malfoy, and atone.

Buy a poppy for your fellow Slyths, ready to die.

Care a little! - at least try.

Try just a little, Malfoy. Try to care.

Maybe you will when you join the bodies rotting out there.

There is a war waging,

and I am now dead.

There is a gravestone above my simulacrum head.

Poppies are not bought in my name,

but wreaths of lilies, white as snow.

Water them with blood and watch them grow.

"Buy a poppy, Malfoy,"

so I can say that I, too, fought.

Buy a poppy so it wasn't all for nought.

If no one wears these poppies,

what is the point?

Not even magi are remembered,

not Muggles,

not those not-children,

not-veterans,

not-special people.

Not those ordinary men and women dead and forgotten.

Kill your speed.

Not a child.

The tears for one could never be mild.

Four days now and counting.

Four days since I watched myself die.

Four days of living a lie.

It was late one night, ten days ago,

That I knocked on a cold iron door.

"Please will you help," I asked,

knowing that he would.

"Please will you help me,"

for he was the only one that could.

"Please help me save them,

let me die instead.

Please let them believe me dead."

"Miss Granger –

Hermione –

Child.

A simulacrum is a dreadful thing to make.

Magic and pain and blood are just some of things it will take.

A simulacrum is not a thing to make lightly.

It will return, angry at death, nightly.

It will haunt you, child.

Forget this foolish plan.

Forget this.

I can't help you.

I can't – what do you think I am?"

Such a look in his eyes as he tried to turn away.

Such a look at the price I was willing to pay.

He, too, has known such sorrow –

and he was the only one who could help me in the morrow.

"Please sir.

I know that we don't get along.

Please sir.

Please help me save them.

Please.

I don't care what might go wrong.

They're all I have, and nobody cares.

They are not special –

not magi, nor werewolves or vampires or ogres

they are not helpless children.

They are not old people we must defend.

They are not special to anyone but me –

and if they are hurt, unlike us, they cannot mend."

His arms were covered well from the evening light

But even there, in the approaching night,

I could see beneath those robes to the carvings in his skin.

He, like me, is lit from within.

"I don't want them in the crossfire;

I don't want them here.

I don't want them in England.

I don't want them near. "

There were bite marks on his neck, reaching his chest.

Not of love –

someone tried to rip out his heart through his breast.

There was fear in his eyes of what I was willing to do,

fear that nothing I said was untrue.

"Please sir. "

He was frightened that night,

Ten whole days ago.

I sometimes wish

I had not gone to his door.

"She smells like vanilla, and he like aftershave.

They don't ever need to tell me to behave.

She cooked curries and pies and everything nice –

he sat by me and gave me advice. "

I can't bear to think of his face

so pale, so gaunt, missing its usual artless grace –

I can't bear to feel the guilt for him

As well as for it, bleeding on that tarmac shelf,

Staring at the former pieces of itself.

"Buy a poppy, Malfoy."

Don't be our Lord's spoiled toy.

"Please sir."

Buy a poppy and ease my guilt.

Buy one to see the house that paranoia built –

full of twigs and fear

and a simulacrum's ear,

arms, legs and heart –

See the house? It's falling apart.

He knew this would happen,

Those ten nights ago.

He tried to close that cold iron door.

"Please sir!"

I wept.

I admit it.

I wept.

"I love them as much as they love me.

I want a shadow me,

almost me,

something like me

to die instead of me –

and I want them to see.

I want them to go, not to stay and wait to bury me.

I want them to leave, be safe;

I don't want to have to visit another grave –"

His eyes were so dark, so hopeless with grief

At yet another death's knell -

"Please sir. Can they be that hard to save?"

Just one small spell.

One small potion.

One small heartbreaking emotion.

Poppies on my chest each day, as I walk door to door,

Not sure if I can do this anymore.

"Buy a poppy for the veterans."

Buy a poppy for me.

Buy a poppy because I, too

- simulacrum, hollow child -

died, torn apart.

They are gone, now. Safe.

We are the hollow men –

_We are the stuffed men._

No more poppies.

I can live with that.

A/N:

1. The 'kill your speed. Not a child' phrase is from a 'safe driving' advert shown in the mid-90s, to the best of my knowledge.

2. November 11th – on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, there is a silence in Britain as we mourn those dead in two world wars. People wear red paper poppies pinned to their lapels. The nearest Sunday to the eleventh is called Remembrance Sunday.

3. The poem quoted incessantly is, of course, T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men".

4. A simulacrum is a creature / creation made to look like a human being. If you want more info, do a search on google. :-)


	4. Such Mortal Drugs

TITLE: SUCH MORTAL DRUGS

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JK Rowling does.

SUMMARY: "He could scream, some small part of Seamus remembered. He had permission."

RATING: R for darkness and blasphemy.

PAIRING: SS/SB for the series.

SERIES: Fourth in 'The Ceremony of Innocence'. Sequel to 'Poppies'

ARCHIVE: Nope.

THANKS TO: My wonderful beta-readers, who saved you from the first three or four drafts of this. They are kind, thoughtful, clever people and any remaining mistakes are entirely my own pig-headed fault.

Revised 10 November 2003.

(YEAR FIVE: DECEMBER)

. . ._ presented new problems for the re-formed peacetime Ministry of Magic. The veracity of those claiming to be victims of the Imperius curse could be verified by truth serum; however, those claiming suffering from possible trauma-induced amnesia could be neither prosecuted nor have their names cleared. The mental trauma that psychiatrists supposed that they were suffering from could not be verified, as a simple memory charm could have been used to good effect. [ On more information on the application and possible side effects of memory charms, see G. Lockhart, __Who Am I?__, Whizz Hard Books, __London: 1993 . . ._

"Seamus, are you in there? C'mon, hurry up, you'll miss dinner!" Ron peered in between the bed-curtains. "What are you doing up there? We missed you in the common room." He spotted the heavy tome open in Seamus' lap. "You're not still reading that great big thing, are you? Honestly, you're getting as bad as Hermione. Put it away and come eat."

_. . . Dumbledore to allow the patent to his Pensieve creation to lapse, enabling the Ministry to begin manufacturing the new devices en masse. Dumbledore, who is still Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had jealously guarded the patent rights, refusing to allow further copies of the Pensieve to be created and storing the prototype in his Gringotts vault. He cited possible long-term problems and recommended further research on its side effects before the device was released to the public. The pressing backlog of trauma cases at St. Mungo's, however, necessitated that the Ministry pursue a more expedient approach, and in June 1982, the Pensieve entered mass-production._

_The initial sales figures were impressive enough to warrant the global marketing campaign that was launched in early 1983 [ see Ministry of Magic, Annual Report 1983, for further details . The Pensieve was initially marketed as relief from the pain of unpleasant or traumatic memories . . ._

Seamus sat cross-legged on his bed, his brow furrowed in concentration, chewing on his lower lip.

_. . . published 'Pensieve Addiction: The Myth of Independence' [ New Wizard, Vol. 4, August 1984 , to world-wide condemnation and disbelief. Nonetheless, the medical evidence cited was indisputable, and professional institutions immediately ceased their use of the Pensieves pending further research . . ._

"Seamus?"

Seamus looked up, startled, and sat back heavily. He hadn't even heard Ron the first couple of times he had been called. "What? Oh -- yeah. Uh, give me a minute, okay?" he said, patting the book. Ron looked thoughtful for a moment then nodded.

"Good luck tonight." He disappeared back behind the curtains.

Seamus returned to the book.

_. . . Longbottom, diagnosed in September 1984; Frank Longbottom, diagnosed in October 1984. These three cases - all still committed to the psychiatric wing of St. Mungo's - are literally textbook examples of the "Morphium Paradox" . . ._

He was shivering slightly. Ron knew that tonight he'd. . . but he was being silly now. Of course Ron knew. All the Gryffindor fifth-year boys knew; they had shared a dormitory with Seamus for five years. They knew his belongings and his business almost as intimately as they knew their own. It was hard to miss his dread increasing with each Advent- and Lent- Sunday; the nervous way he fingered his rosary – thoroughly mystifying to the purebloods – as if 'casting protective charms or praying for divine intervention. Each drew their own conclusions, according to their background, and had plenty of time to do it, for it was hard to not notice Seamus' twice-termly trips to Snape's office. Everyone knew, more or less, what the trips entailed and what they cost him. Everyone took good care of the quiet, frightened, morose boy who emerged in his place and headed home for Christmas or for Easter. Everyone knew that term breaks were not fun holidays for him; that only the summer held any appeal.

Everyone knew that it was perfectly possible to live with certain events of your life trapped inside the mist of the Pensieve.

_. . . resulted in complete breakdown. Whereas previously their resiliency to emotional and mental shocks would have protected them, the three years' dependency on the Pensieve in the relief of V's fall had taken their toll. All three former Aurors fell victim to the Morphium Paradox and surrendered their consciousness to inhabit their dreams. They were committed to St. Mungo's for further study, but a meaningful recovery is highly unlikely._

_A recent attempt was made to force the three subjects to reclaim their memories through the use of Expergefacio Medicamentum; this attempt had no discernible effect on their mental states. . ._

It was possible, oh yes. It just wasn't recommended.

Seamus closed the book and regarded its plain cover thoughtfully for a long moment. The Morphium Pensieve: A History, by Dr Rhoeas Stalk. He knew that name well. He'd seen it at the bottom of official-looking documents for as long as he could --

_Dear Mr and Mrs Finnegan,_

_Please submit your report on Seamus Finnegan's progress during the Muggle religious holidays for the past year, signed and in triplicate, as soon as possible to the DMW, Division 6. Please focus specifically on any unusual events surrounding Mass and private worship._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr R. Stalk,_

_Department of Mage Welfare_

_Division 6 _

-- remember. Damn. He had hated those letters with a passion when he had been younger; he still did, come to think of it. A special loathing had been developed for their sender, a scary, preachy-sounding Dr R. Stalk, who, it transpired, had Muggle qualifications as well as a Healer's license. Seamus wondered how the Muggle title 'Doctor' – instead of the traditional 'Healer' – had been received at Division 6 of the Ministry of Magic. It was a good book, though, he grudgingly admitted.

Of course it was a good book. He would not have been given it otherwise. He would not have kept it otherwise. All of the precious few books Seamus kept by his bedside were paradigms of scholastic virtue and achievement. They were also more or less accessible by people who did not possess a degree in academia.

Seamus carefully returned the book to its permanent resting place, in between well-thumbed copies of Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration and The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and Other Laws That Concern the Average Mage. He jumped a little as the distant chime of the common room clock began to strike out the dinner hour, cursing fluidly and at length in Gaelic. Six in the evening and it was December 17th. Saturnalia, the start of the week-long festivities for Yule and the Winter Solstice. Why did he always leave this until December 17th; the last minute bar one? He couldn't really put it off much longer; he had to go. And, he reasoned, it may as well be tonight. It may as well. . . He glared at the imposing stack of books one more time and drew the bed-curtains back.

"Maire." The owl chittered at him from her make-shift perch on the windowsill, then flew to land on his shoulder. Seamus quickly scribbled a note and attached it to her left leg. "Take this to Professor Snape and bring me back the reply as quickly as you can. I'll be having dinner in the hall." Maire clicked at him again and nipped his cheek affectionately before flying off.

Seamus stood still for a moment as if savouring another moment of freedom, then turned and trudged towards the door of the boys' dormitory.

"Well, we can't leave you here by yourself, Hermione; we'll just stay too," Ron declared around a mouthful of chicken drumstick. He snagged the gravy boat and poured a small lake over his Yorkshire puds.

Hermione looked like she was attempting a smile. It didn't work. Hermione had stopped smiling over a month ago, becoming pale and wan-looking. Seamus had mutely noted Harry and Ron's efforts to console her after her parents had abruptly decided to move to America, of all places (scuttlebutt had any number of unlikely reasons for their disappearance). Privately, Seamus was not so sure of that story. Hermione did look alone, but by no means abandoned. It was a feeling hard to describe in words when the best example he could use was Professor Snape, who was totally alone but in no way abandoned. He had chosen solitude.

Had Hermione done the same? Seamus watched her carefully. Underneath the traditional cheerful crown of candles all the girls adopted for Sow Day, she looked thin and haggard. She was developing that same look of carefully controlled guilt and tightly-reined power, and she was certainly stronger magically than she had previously been; her teachers were singing her praises for random strokes of genius as well as diligence and attention to detail. Hermione was finally fulfilling her potential and was on her way to becoming a strong witch, which was something quite different from the good pupil she used to be.

"Don't worry, Hermione. It's not like I want to go to the Dursleys; I'll stay here too, same as usual. And this Christmas will be brilliant. We'll..." Harry helped himself to another dollop of mashed potato and visibly groped for something to suggest that wouldn't seem like a waste of time, "we'll study Animagism! It'll be great; I bet we get it by sixth year." He grinned. Ron quickly joined in.

After a moment, Hermione relented and gave the boys a cautious but nonetheless genuine smile. It looked like it had cost her a great deal. Seamus wondered at this, while Harry and Ron pretended not to notice.

Seamus also occasionally wondered at the frequent references the trio made to sixth year – everything from annoying Professor Snape to learning Animagism seemed to depend on entering the sixth year for those three – but he honestly couldn't spare the subject much thought tonight. Not tonight.

"Seamus, mate, you all right?" Dean Thomas, seated next to him and working his way through a mountain of bangers'n'mash, paused in shovelling food into his mouth to stare at him in concern. "Is it time yet?" He said under his breath, so quietly that Seamus almost didn't hear him.

Starting, Seamus suddenly realised that he hadn't touched his food. "I – uh, what, me? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Seamus –"

"Yeah. Yes." He scowled and Dean abruptly shut up.

Ron cast a quick, concerned look in their direction. "He's got a date with Snape," he said a bit too loudly, causing Lavender Brown to spray her food and gulp down her pumpkin juice.

Dean cracked a smile at this. "How romantic," he said, but he still looked faintly worried.

Maire chose that moment to make an appearance, raising a few inquisitive glances from the nearby Slytherin table. She clicked at them irritably and swooped towards the group of Gryffindors still working their way through impressively-piled plates. Seamus looked up, saw her approach and froze. Maire dropped her letter and flew off without even waiting for an acknowledgement, much less a treat. She knew she wasn't wanted.

The entire table slowly became aware that Seamus hadn't opened his letter and was in fact regarding it with a cold kind of fear. The Gryffindor fifth-year boys immediately began a small, controlled food-fight, giving Dean time to open the letter once it became clear the Seamus was intending to just look at it from afar.

"Is it a love letter?" Lavender giggled, casting Seamus a flirtatious look.

"Oh, yes, Professor Snape writes such romantic poetry for a miserable git," Dean said automatically. He scanned the letter, nodded once and pocketed it. Seamus still hadn't moved.

Not tonight. Not tonight. He suddenly wished he hadn't sent Maire off. He wished that the owl – the owl he had had for eight years – had died en route. He wished that Dean had destroyed the note. He wished that his friends didn't know him so well.

He wished a great deal and knew that it was pointless.

"Come on, Casanova, let's get you ready for your date. See you later, guys." Dean grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the hall, leaving Lavender giggling in their wake.

They barely made it to the boys' bathroom before Seamus doubled over and started to retch, the cracked tiles cold under his knees and bare hands. Dean grabbed him hurriedly and practically carried him to a stall. There really was no need to move from the floor; Seamus hadn't really eaten anything much for the last week, so it wasn't as if he had anything significant to bring up. His body, however, continued convulsing, his hands shaking as he clung to the toilet bowl so he could dry-heave without choking on his own tongue. Dean knelt beside him, carefully keeping his hair out of his face and sleeves and tie out of the toilet bowl.

"Hey, it's okay mate. Just... it's okay." He rubbed Seamus' back comfortingly. "The food wasn't that nice anyway; you're not missing much," causing Seamus to choke as he tried to laugh and retch at the same time. He waited until the shaking eased. "Okay for now?"

Slumped tiredly over the toilet bowl, Seamus nodded and allowed himself to be pulled upright. "I'm fine," he whispered.

He didn't even need to wipe his mouth, Dean realised with a start. He couldn't have eaten anything in days.

"'Course you're fine. Never said otherwise, did I? But you look a state. Wash that mug o' course, eh?" He carefully wiped the pained tears from Seamus' blotchy cheeks and nodded in the direction of the washbasins. "Unless you want to tell me that these tears weren't from puking but from an emotional trauma?" His voice was light, but Seamus stiffened all the same.

"My guts are in the plumbing right now; what do you want from me?" He staggered to the washbasin and splashed some cold water on his face, his sleeves trailing in the damp of the basin and tangling around his wrists. "What time?" He asked without looking up.

"Eight. " Dean leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "You've got half an hour. D'you want anything?"

"I want to be sick again."

He bent over the basin, his body taut as he retched. Dean stood by him, not saying anything, not touching him, just waiting. They had half an hour. Plenty of time to wait.

Seamus eventually composed himself enough to wave Dean away and set off for Snape's office alone. Dean had wiped his face again, straightened his tie, told him that he'd be in the common room all evening, and left him on his own. Seamus didn't particularly want anyone walking with him to this rendezvous. Every step was a test of character; every step was a test of courage.

The first two years, he had been forcibly restrained by a weeping Madame Pomfrey.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for the potion. I am sorry I was deliberately difficult. I am sorry I upset Madame Pomfrey. I am sorry I threw up on your desk._

_Seamus_

Letter after letter; year after year; a macabre correspondence with a man he hated more than anything.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for the book you gave me, it was very helpful. Thank you for the potion. I am sorry I was difficult and I upset your familiars. I am sorry I broke the potion bottles on your desk. I am sorry I upset Madame Pomfrey. I am sorry she had to Stupefy me. I realise that it was a childish thing to do (Prof. McGonagall certainly seems to think so). I am sorry I am not making this easy for you. I am sorry that nothing you can say will make me take the potion voluntarily._

_Seamus_

Was it his imagination, or had the whole thing become worse once he began to choose to undergo this? Aged twelve, he had sworn that they would have to hold him down for the rest of his days. Now, barely three years later, he walked a dead man's walk to Professor Snape's office. He didn't have anyone to blame but himself; he knew this well. It was simply something, Professor Snape never tired of telling him, he would have to learn to live with.

_. . . Paradox, coined by Severus Snape [ see __The Journal of Moste Potente Potions__, where Prof. Snape is associate editor , whose work with Albus Dumbledore resulted in both a diagnosis and a possible course of recuperative treatment via the reclamation potion, Expergefacio Medicamentum. The Morphium Paradox typically affects long-term users who have developed a high tolerance of the Pensieve._

It wasn't even anything bad; he had been a mere child, after all.

_A trauma victim's initial use of the Pensieve would normally involve the commitment of a particularly painful memory to posterity._

It had been an accident.

_Dumbledore postulated that the safest and most efficient way to achieve this would be to limit the process to the emotions associated with the memory concerned, as they were the cause of the trauma. The Pensieve, as used by trauma victims, effectively acts as a storage device for the emotions attached to traumatic events, without removing the memory itself. _

He would eventually grow mature enough to accept it

_The subject retains intellectual knowledge and their capacity to evolve emotionally is not impaired; indeed, replacing the traumatic memory with one that is simply factual ensures that the subject is cured of the debilitating mental problems these memories would ordinarily cause. _

without the aid of

_Dumbledore termed this procedure the 'bleaching' effect, as it leaves behind whiter, purer memories._

a Pensieve.

_If use is left to the subject's judgement, there is often a temptation to bleach a growing portion of their memories, where the rate of growth is estimated to be exponential. The subject loses the ability to distinguish between debilitating horror and mere unpleasantness, bleaching an ever-growing portion of their psyche. The three studied cases had a substantial number of distressing memories from their jobs as Aurors for the Ministry of Magic; their abuse of the Pensieve magic was thus impossible to diagnose until the number of bleached memories reached critical mass and . . ._

Maybe not. Professors Snape and Dumbledore evidently thought that he would abuse the Pensieve if left to his own devices; the treatment they had prescribed allowed continued use only if repeated attempts at reclamation took place during term breaks. It was for his own good, everyone kept saying, until Seamus wanted to scream. It was for his own good. No one wanted to see him end up committed, like those poor, poor people in St. Mungo's.

"I know what you are thinking, Mr Finnegan."

_. . . The reclamation potion, of which Expergefacio Medicamentum is by far the most sophisticated version developed to date, can be taken orally in both liquid and/or tablet form. It can also be injected subcutaneously, intramuscularly, or intravenously; the last is the route recommended for those with an established progressive Pensieve dependency._

Snape was seated behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him, hair carefully tied back, out of his way. He wore slightly lighter robes than usual, with fewer layers, allowing him greater ease of movement. His skin had the faint pink twinge that recent dedicated scrubbing always produced. His desk, usually covered in a peculiarly organised clutter of unmarked papers, half-finished potions recipes and any number of confiscated items, was completely clear. It always was for this task, Seamus had noted relatively early on, just as Snape was always freshly bathed, his long hair tied back, his hands scrubbed raw. Everything about the man reeked of cleanliness and disinfectant, so much so that Seamus had sometimes wondered, confused, if his tormentor and his teacher - who always carried with him the scent of burned monkshood - really were the same person. It was hard to tell, sometimes, which persona was more real. Seamus had known of "S. Snape" before he had ever met Professor Severus Snape. Strange that it had taken him three years to finally meet the man who brewed the potion Seamus had labelled the bane of his existence. He had hated Severus Snape for his discoveries and for the damnable reclamation potion before the two had ever met.

_Possible side effects of Expergefacio Medicamentum include dizziness, drowsiness, nausea, sweating, agitation, 'pinpoint' pupils, rigid muscles, abdominal pain, chills, fainting, high blood pressure and insomnia._

"I know what you are thinking, Mr Finnegan." Snape's gaze was level. "But you are wrong.

_Expergefacio Medicamentum is a prescription-only potion and supervision during its use is highly recommended_.

I do not enjoy this."

_[ For further information on the use and effects of Expergefacio Medicamentum, see S. Snape, 'Experrectus: Expergefacio Medicamentum', inc. in S. Snape & A. Dumbledore, __The Morphium Paradox: Diagnosis and Treatment__, Obscurus Books, London: 1986 ._

"Then don't do it. Let me leave." Seamus was actually a little surprised that he still had a voice left after retching for almost an hour. He stepped forward, deeper into the office. He was assailed once more by the nauseating smell of disinfectant. "Let me go without."

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for the potion. I will not be needing it._

Seamus

I will not be needing it - No, he didn't need the potion. What he needed was the Pensieve. What he needed was an end to this pointless attempt at cave-man psychiatry; a carrot and a stick stuck in an endless circle of treatment and weaning, narcotic and withdrawal.

No. He didn't need this.

"You are free to leave –"

"And be brought back Stupefied by Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore! That's not exactly a choice, is it?" He wasn't angry – not really – but this had become a sort of ritual. It seemed that Seamus' life was filled with rituals, each containing its own poison pill. He knew this was for his own good, of course. He knew this, intellectually. He just didn't feel it.

"It's only for a little while longer, Mr Finnegan. Until you are old enough." Snape's eyes were unreadable.

Despite the harsh tones of his teacher's voice, Seamus understood that Snape was trying to be kind.

It had the sound of nails on a blackboard.

He sighed; a tired, angry sigh full of resignation. "Let's get this over with." Such a far cry from his screams the first, second, third, last time here. Dear Professor Snape -- Such a far cry from --

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for making the reclamation potion for me. It is horrid and it makes me very ill, but mum says it is good for me so I have to thank you. Please don't make any more, as it is horrid and it makes me sad and it spoils Christmas. I have twenty Chocolate Frogs and two bags of Every Flavour Beans and I have put them in a bag for you. Please stop making the potion._

_Seamus, age 8 3/4_

a child's hope that a bribe would fix things. Give me --

Snape inclined his head towards the stoppered bottle perched on the edge of a small side table, next to which a Pensieve had been placed. An armchair had been stood by the table; Seamus did not recall it being there when he visited this office for detentions. Clearly, it was only brought out for special occasions.

-- some hope, Professor. Is there as end in sight?

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for making the reclamation potion for me. Thank you for returning the sweets and thank you for the laughter potion. My mate thought it was well cool. I have put all my marbles and a game of Exploding Snap in a bag for you. I also have some Cockroach Clusters, but they melted a bit. Please stop making the potion._

_Seamus _

How nice, Seamus couldn't help thinking bitterly. I'm a special occasion. He sat down,

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for making the reclamation potion for me and for returning _

shivering in fear despite his resolve.

_the bag I sent you. Thank you for the owl-treats for Maire._

Took a deep breath.

"Scream if you need to," Snape said quietly, as he had said a countless number of times before.

_Please stop making the potion. I will never misbehave ever ever. My mate reckons I should give you my immortal soul. I asked mum and she said I wasn't to do that, but I wrote it down anyway in case you are interested. I don't reckon mum'd notice._

_Seamus_

Seamus nodded.

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_I will be coming to Hogwarts this year. I am sorry that you do not _

Took another deep breath.

_want__ my soul. _

Lifted the bottle to his lips and

_After drinking the reclamation potion I don't want it either. _

drank.

_Thank you for making it but please stop._

_Please._

_Seamus_

Nothing.

Professor Snape --

"Don't tense up," Snape's voice suddenly came from behind him. "Don't tense up, boy."

Seamus was shaking almost too much to register the voice, but strong hands caught him and pressed him into the soft, mindless comfort of the armchair.

It was worse than it had ever been. Seamus' breath caught somewhere south of his windpipe; his hands clenched into fists and his head snapped forward into his chest. "Oh -- God -- oh --" He gasped for air, fighting the nausea that immediately arose. "Oh --"

_'S. Finnegan' - __December 17th, 1996_

_Session report:_

_Subject responded poorly to the elevated Expergefacio Medicamentum dose._

"It's okay –" Strong fingers carded through his hair, trying to keep his head still.

He could scream, some small part of Seamus remembered. He had permission. He could scream.

He shook off the hand in his hair with a low growl, threw his head back and – as he had permission, as it was okay – screamed at the top of his lungs.

Liquid fire poured through his veins.

That had always been among the first indications that it really had been Expergefacio Medicamentum that he had downed. That, combined with the nausea and the tight, suffocating grip his oesophagus clenched into, made him dread the initial fifteen minutes more than anything else. The rest of his symptoms had always been eased by various charms and spells and the liberal application of a bag of hot barley seeds across his stomach and chest; in the first fifteen minutes, though… in the first fifteen minutes it was just a case of waiting it out. The burning would ease eventually.

Eventually.

"Count, Mr Finnegan." The vice-like grip on his upper arms intensified, yanking him into an upright position. "Count to one hundred for me."

"One --" Seamus gasped, feeling as though he were speaking through treacle, "two --"

"In Russian, if you please."

Russian? Snape had always previously asked for Greek or Latin; Seamus' Cyrillic was pitiful. At least he wasn't likely to be punished if he got it wrong.

"Adin --" his stomach was doing its best to reject everything that had ever passed through it. "Dva -- tri --" It was lucky, really, that there was absolutely nothing left in him. And he wouldn't -- "chitiri --" vomit the potion. He could never vomit the potion, no matter how hard he tried. "Pyat -- shyas -- sem --"

That didn't mean that he couldn't retch, though. "Oh, God!" He struggled out of the tight grasp, throwing himself on to the floor, curling into a semi-foetal position and clawing at his throat. His oesophagus was melting. "Nghghghg!"

"Count, Mr Finnegan." There was a blur of black in front of Seamus' face; Snape had knelt in front of him. Seamus felt himself enfolded by strong arms and pulled over a heavy mass of thigh, hands rubbing his back all the while. The strange position eased his clenching stomach muscles somewhat, allowed him to retch more easily and - he figured this was the real purpose - protected his throat from his grasping, clawing, desperate hands. "Count, Mr Finnegan. Sem."

Sadist. "Sem --" Our Father, who art in heaven --

His consciousness fled.

_Symptoms included a seizure, vomiting, elevated temperature and high blood pressure. Treatment of symptoms was focused on keeping the subject clean, cool and hydrated. Treatment was temporarily suspended 14 minutes after ingesting the potion as the subject began to choke. The subject was placed in the recovery position until the seizure eased after 8 minutes. _

When he came back to himself, his muscles had cramped. His throat felt dry as sandpaper; Seamus correctly guessed that it was the result of artificial respiration.

"Dry mouth?" Snape was still kneeling by him.

Seamus nodded cautiously. The world spun and he clenched his eyes tightly to will it to rights. He heard Snape stand and move away, no doubt reaching for the various remedies he had already prepared.

Sem, he thought, clenching his teeth. A dull, throbbing ache had appeared, worse than in previous years. Osyam. His muscles burned. Had he stopped breathing for quite a while? It would explain the oxygen-starvation his body was angrily complaining of. Devyat.

A soft rustling sound indicated that Snape had returned. "Open your eyes."

He did so, with difficulty. A very blurry Snape carefully dripped two drops of some clear liquid into the inside corner of each eye.

"Blink."

That wasn't a problem. His tear ducts were still working.

"A distilled Elecampane-based solution, in case you are interested." Snape rolled his sleeves back and dipped his fingers in the small pot he had brought over. "And this?" He rubbed the cream between his fingers to warm it.

"Daftodi, cress and powdered bezoar, emulsified. Numbs burns, heals most respiratory ailments --" those elegant, long-fingered hands were slowly massaging the cream into his throat and chest. Seamus saw a slash of pale scarred flesh, disappearing into those dark sleeves, but wasn't focused enough to really care. Daftodi. Cress. Bezoar. "The smoke of the burning cress keeps serpents away, according to Pliny." The first time he'd read that, he'd burnt an entire basketful of the stuff. It hadn't worked. Snape still came for him.

"Another name for daftodi?" The touch was feather-light, rubbing in small circles.

It was becoming hard to think again. Daftodi. "Narcissus." Used externally to heal burns, sprains and wounds.

"Very good. What could have been used instead?" His vision began to swim again. Seamus blinked rapidly.

"Arnica. . . crushed root and flowers, for bruises and wounds. Figs. Great mullein. Is it time, yet?" He couldn't think. How long had it been? How long was left?

"Nearly. One other use for great mullein."

Nearly time. He'd feel it. He always did. Always when the fear crashed into him.

"Mr Finnegan. Great mullein."

Oh, go f--- "Bleach. It dyes hair."

"Take ten points for Gryffindor."

Yes, he was going mad. Tiny, hungry ants marched across his skin and began to devour him. It was more of an itch than real pain, until he felt them reach the tender layer of baby fat that still remained.

_The reclamation potion began to interact with the subject's mind after 43 minutes. Upon its activation, the subject became agitated _

At last he was on his feet, his wand out. He knew how to stop this. He knew he knew he knew to

_and__ attempted to _

break it! Break it, it'll end!

_smash _

The ants had stripped all his skin away; a boy-shaped piece of meat, he staggered towards the source of all his hate and all his pain, brandishing his wand as one would a sword.

Break it!

_the Pensieve. This was unsuccessful as contact with its _

It was what it had been waiting for. It knew.

_surface__ forced him to reclaim the expunged memory._

And it had been ready.

_Offerte vobis pacem._

After registering the handshake with the scared girl next to him, his memory was not clear: it did not wish to be clear. Incense hung in a thick shroud around him, draping him in Latin he still could not decipher.

_Agnus__ Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis_.

It seemed to take forever. The priest's hands worked nimbly at the semi-covered slab on the altar, carefully breaking the bread that would become the Body of Christ.

_Agnus__ Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. _

The priest was indistinct, his form ragged through the shroud of incense that stung Seamus' eyes and made him blink away tears. He remembered strange things from then on, things that did not connect. He remembered his father polishing his shoes for him by hand; he remembered his mother pressing his First Communion suit with the wave of a wand. His parents had always done their best to include him in both of their worlds. They took him to church, and they bought him a toy broomstick to ride on, feet dangling barely two feet from the ground. And when he was old enough, his mother's world – Hogwarts – would embrace him.

But today was special. Today was when he would embrace his father's world. Today he would show himself a Real Catholic. Today was when he could show that the magical world wasn't his only birthright; when he could make his father proud. All it would take was Faith, and Seamus had faith; he always had. If it was just faith, it would all be all right on this Sunday. Today. Today, above all days, was special. This was the day Seamus was to remember, his father had said.

Seamus did not remember.

_Agnus__ Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis. Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis._

Seamus did not wish to remember.

_Agnus__ Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona nobis pacem._

It was done at last. The white on the priest's robes was very white; the purple was very purple; the gold was very gold. The priest himself was faceless, voiceless, nameless, formless, frightening and benevolent all at the same time as he took the host – the Body of Christ, Seamus remembered, it was to be the Body of Christ, endless catechism had hammered it into him – and broke it over the paten. He placed a small piece in the chalice, where the Blood of Christ was kept.

_Haec__ commixtio Corporis et Sanguinis Domini nostri Iesu Christi fiat accipientibus nobis in vitam aeternam._

There were saints all around him, their tortured faces shining down from the walls, their tear-stained visages carved into the very fabric of the church itself. What was he to do? The Blood of Christ. The Body of Christ.

He was hiccupping with fear.

Seamus knew which saints to ask for what; he knew which saint had died in what manner; he knew, above all, how to distinguish saints and their saintly miracles from mages and their other-worldly deeds.

Real Catholics do not know such things, he was sure. Real Catholics have Faith. What did he have? How could he do this? Was he Real enough for First Communion, where God tested you? Catechism wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough.

_Domine__ Iesu Christe, Fili Dei vivi, qui ex voluntate Patris, cooperante Spiritu Sancto, per mortem tuam mundum vivificasti: libera me per hoc sacrosanctum Corpus et Sanguinem tuum ab omnibus iniquitatibus meis et universes malis: et fac me tuis semper inhaerere mandates, et a te num quam separari permittas._

And here, in front of everyone, he would be found out. He would be cast out. No place for magi in the Church. No embrace of the Father; no amount of Faith could help him. No amount of his father's prayers, no amount of book-reading his mother forced him to do each week, no catechism class could help him, because he wasn't a Real Catholic, and now, all the others would Find Out.

The priest genuflected and Seamus started to shake.

They'd know. They'd know.

The incense seemed impossibly thick.

They'd know, and he would be thrown out. His mother would still love him, but his father would disown him, would excommunicate him, as would the Church, and rightly so. He'd be burned at a stake.

_Ecce Agnus Dei, ecce qui tollit peccata muni. Beati qui ad cenam Agni vocati sunt._

Seamus started to cry.

_Domine__, non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum: sed tantum dic verbo, et sanabitur anima mea._

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

_Corpus Christi custodiat me in vitam aeternam._

The priest consumed the Body of Christ, as he was allowed to do. As God wanted him to. As Seamus was sure he never would. Bread on his tongue, just bread.

_Sanguis Christi custodiat me in vitam aeternam._

No blood here, of Christ or otherwise, because he would not be given that. All he could do was watch the priest drink it, and know that, for him, it would be forever denied. His parents would hate him. They had their worlds, and he could fit into neither.

The priest was in front of him, the holy man of God. He held out his hands, where bread lay. Where a chalice was cupped.

And all Seamus could do was stare at him numbly and pray and hope and wish and beg God that it wouldn't be just bread on his tongue, just wine on his lips. He prayed and begged and hoped and wished and strained against what he knew, deep down, he would receive: just the image of blessedness. He wouldn't be a Real Catholic after this. He had never been Real, but they had never known. Surely, surely they would know now. They would know that he was not wanted. That God did not want to bless him.

Oh please oh please oh please oh please I don't want to lose this I don't want it to not work for me oh please oh please oh please let it be the Body and the Blood, I don't want it to not work for me I don't want it to not work for me --

_Corpus Christi._

Seamus' eyes closed in terror. "Amen." He closed his mouth around the communion wafer.

It was impossibly salty on his tongue, thick and unyielding. He couldn't force himself to swallow it; not this lead, salty weight, heavy on his lying tongue.

_Sanguis Christi._

"Amen."

And this, this he knew. From scraped palms and paper cuts, he knew this taste. And he gagged.

The Body of Christ fell from his open lips on to the floor amid the screams of the congregation.

"Steady – steady now . . . " Strong, warm arms were around him; a hand in his hair; his face pressed against a clothed shoulder. The cloth scratched his cheek where the tears had made the skin red-raw.

"Oh God – oh God – oh God –" Warm tears flowed afresh down his face, salty on his lips. Just water and salt, as is our blood. As is His Blood. "Oh God –"

"You're all right, boy. You're all right. I have you. You're all right." The mantra continued while Seamus retched and cried and wailed, white-faced, as if his world had broken. Anything but this. Oh please, anything but this hideous emptiness when he realised that despite what he wanted, despite his dearest wishes, despite all his prayers, he could not remain in the Church. In one swift painful move, his faith had been torn away from him, despite his pleading and tears.

He did not remember much after that. He did not remember his parents' arms around him, although they must have felt something like this. He did not remember the pale, horrified faces of the congregation, the screams or the crash of windows that signalled the entry of Aurors. He did not remember the blinding light of the endless series of Obliviate charms cast one after the other, one after the other, just the taste of copper and salt on his tongue, like undercooked meat. Like lost faith, or faith taken away.

And there, in the cold of the dungeon, because it was allowed, because this was the only thing he could do, he cried.

_The subject became hysterical and had to be forcibly restrained from harming himself. After 18 minutes, the agitation passed to be replaced with withdrawal._

"Fruit juice?"

"No, thank you, sir," Seamus replied automatically, nervously re-knotting his tie. His hands stilled. "I – um . . . thank you. For your help. For the potion. I should –"

"Have some fruit juice."

Snape was standing too close. Seamus could feel the rough fabric of his outer robes prickling on the edges of his personal space. Too close, too close. It reminded him that he had been closer; that he knew how that fabric felt against tear-streaked skin. And, once again, he thanked whoever might be listening that Snape put such a high premium on privacy. To have his secrets bared to the student body . . .

He was not entirely sure he could survive it.

He was not entirely sure he could survive walking out of here and out among them again. But he would. He always had. If he could just leave as soon as possible –

"Have some fruit juice," Snape said again in that deceptively pleasant voice he favoured when someone was really in trouble.

_Once he became coherent, the subject was offered food and fruit juice. He refused. _

"Professor –"

_He was compelled to imbibe the refreshments through reinforced suggestion. [Charm used: 'Oboedire Totalus', mild Imperius variant, see attached authorisation paperwork for extreme control measure. The sugar entered the bloodstream swiftly, as 6 minutes later the subject's discomfort eased somewhat._

He didn't even see the flash of the wand. "_Oboedire Totalus_." Snape handed him the flask. "Drink."

He didn't really want the fruit juice. Not really. He drank anyway. Not because he was afraid of Snape, although he was. Not because he felt the delicate but steady threads of the spell working their way through him, although he could. Not because it would make him feel infinitesimally better, although it would.

He drank, because he was grateful that someone cared enough to make him drink.

Even if it was their job.

"Professor?"

Snape looked up from his paperwork. "Yes? Better now?"

It was an hour later. Of course he was better. Sitting still in an armchair that was too comfortable, watching his erstwhile tormentor record his progress in that perfect script of his, he did indeed feel better now.

What else was left to feel? He only needed to find out when he could get rid of this – this – whatever this feeling was that left him so out of breath.

He was better now.

All that was left was to find out when Snape would make the 'better' stop.

"Yes. I – what is your prognosis, Professor?"

It was a real chance for Snape to be cruel. He could refuse to disclose his report, as was entirely his right. He could lie. He could prevaricate, obfuscate, stall or just simply send Seamus off to bed.

It was to his credit, then, that Snape did none of those things. In a flat monotone, he read his report of Seamus Finnegan for this day, December 17th, Sow's Day, the first day of Solstice and the start of the Yule Festivities. ". . . the subject's discomfort eased somewhat.

"NB: Investigate possible swelling of trachea / liquid in lungs as a temporary side-effect. Switch to subcutaneous injections instead? Investigate possible cumulative increase of belladonna levels in the subject. Full blood work-up and chem. analysis required. Contact Muggle Edinburgh Royal Infirmary for external assessment.

"General conclusion: improved initial response to memory reintegration. The subject became agitated rather than catatonic with fright. The subject has responded in an active rather than passive manner, and this should be encouraged. There is some uncertainty as to whether he is developing a tolerance to Expergefacio Medicamentum, or accumulating levels that will eventually result in an allergic reaction. More subject-based individualised research is required. Parents' permission is insufficient; the Ministry must secure the subject's consent, as his co-operation is paramount.

"Recommended time for duration of reintegration: 21 days.

"Next appointment: 8pm, January 7th, 1997, Slytherin Dungeons, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"Signed: Prof. S. Snape, supervising general practitioner

"Date: 17/12/96."

Twenty one days.

Three weeks. Three whole weeks of this feeling, as if he had been hollowed out with the apple corer his mother stored in the bottom cutlery drawer.

I will not cry. He did not. He cleared his throat and thanked his hated professor once more, pulled himself together and moved, finally, toward the door of the dungeon. Nearly there. Nearly home. Twenty one days. He could survive that, right?

"Mr. Finnegan?"

Snape's voice was barely above a whisper.

Seamus stopped at the door and turned around. Snape still sat at his desk, the candle light making him look older, more tired than normal. It glinted off the spidery pale white scars that whispered up his arms.

Outside, a dog howled.

"Yes sir?"

Snape's eyes were impossibly dark. "We have a chapel, for the use of Muggle-born students. It's on the third floor. Non-denominational. A priest comes in from Hogsmeade for Christmas and Easter."

Seamus' mouth was dry. "Yes sir."

And Snape said nothing more, merely looked at him.

_The subject has responded in an active rather than passive manner, and this should be encouraged._

"Thank you sir."

He closed the door on his way out.

_. . . was targeted by the pressure group 'One Age', which claims to represent the interests of young mages across __Britain. The ban on under-age use of the Pensieve was added to the growing list of grievances cited by 'One Age' as age-discriminatory, racist and ridiculously bureaucratic:_

_"1. At age 16 we are allowed to have heterosexual sex, but not engage in sodomy. We are allowed to get married but not leave home without our parents' consent._

_2. We must wait until age 18 to view pornography and to drink alcohol, despite the fact that many 18-year-olds will have young children by then. Evidently, we can be trusted to bring up infants but not to decide how to relax._

_3. Aged 17 we are allowed to take the test to drive Muggle vehicles, but we must wait until age 18 to be tested for an Apparition license._

_4. At age 16 we can be prosecuted as adults for the illegal use of potions and receive a jail sentence. We can be sent to Azkaban for breaking the law, but we are not trusted to use a Pensieve responsibly."_

_[ extract__ taken from a 'One Age' rally, Newcastle__, 1992 _

_'One Age' propose the lowering of the age limit of all age-restricted activities to age 16. The Ministry of Magic is currently in discussion with the Muggle Houses of Parliament, but an agreement is unlikely to be reached before..._

Seamus closed the book with a sigh. It was nearing midnight and he could hear the gentle snores of his roommates, worn out after too much food and worry. It was always the same on Sow's Day, and he regretted ruining the feasts for them through all of this. They wouldn't listen, though, and he could not bring himself to prolong his misery by bringing the entire thing forward a day or two. Not a second more than was necessary.

He wondered if the tightness in his chest really was down to the potion, or whether it had always been present and he had never noticed. Could someone simply not notice this? Could he have been too busy during term time, or was it all down to the Pensieve after all, taking the sting away each day. . .

Sleep did not come easily for him that night, nor the night after, although he did not suffer from nightmares. Sometime in the course of the previous year, he had outgrown them. No more screaming wakefulness, no more glasses of water knocked over on the bedside table as he flailed and cried for his parents. No more drama, no more terror.

There was nothing left but a lingering pain where his faith had used to reside. It was not something he had cast out but something taken from him by force; it was still raw around the edges, rough and bleeding.

It was the third night, the night before he boarded the Hogwarts Express, that he finally gave in.

"Hello? Is anyone here?"

The cubicle was stifling.

"Yes."

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I fear that I do not belong in the Church.

"Father, I have sinned. I . . ." He couldn't even go through confession properly. His hands dove into his pockets to come up, triumphant, with a kerchief unfolded for eight years. Seamus stroked it meditatively. "I have – I – I'm not sure if you're meant to stay in the Church after your powers have manifested. No one has ever told me what I'm supposed to do, and . . . I'm not sure that what I'm doing is right. I'm not sure that God wants me." It would have to do.

"And do you want God, child? Do you still have faith?"

Seamus thought.

He thought of his father and mother, so different, yet somehow trying to create a harmony in their familial life.

He thought of Cedric's death, and of Harry's shattered visage.

It wasn't the doctrine that swayed him, or the rituals or the Latin or even the thick smell of incense, so long forgotten. In the end, it was Cedric's face on the cold white bed of the Infirmary and the silent fear of his fellow students that tipped the balance. That such evil should exist, and that they would stand against him . . .

He thought of Cedric, and of Harry, and of Professor Snape.

And he thought of Voldemort, whose shadow grew to fall over wizarding folk. Harry was just a boy. Just a boy, like himself.

How could any hero triumph without divine favour?

How could he sustain this small flame of hope throughout the winter months ahead?

"I don't know Father," he whispered. "I'm afraid. I'm so afraid –" his voice cracked on the last word. "How are we to survive?"

A long silence in the darkness of the confessional. "Child, would you pray with me?"

His hands stole guiltily to the folded kerchief and to the precious contents therein. "I'd like that," he whispered.

There was the heavy clunk of the rosary beads, and a soft murmur as Seamus Finnegan knelt on the cold stone and began to pray for the salvation of his soul.

_. . . despite the growing evidence supporting the existence of the Morphium Paradox, the Pensieve magic is still the only way of treating some severe trauma victims, who would be catatonic without its intervention. Its use is now carefully regulated and requires the supervision of one of the 28 UK-based qualified general practitioners specialising in Pensieve addiction. Professors Snape and Dumbledore have also donated their services to oversee the underage cases requiring Pensieve intervention. The children cannot be named due to legal restrictions, but all four are currently attending __Hogwarts__School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. . ._

fin

A/N

1. Liturgy of the Eucharist in Latin

2. Expergefacio – to be awake (Latin).

3. Experrectus – to wake up (Latin).

4. Medicamentum – remedy, drug, magic potion (Latin).

5. Oboedire – obey, from OB- audire, to hear (Latin).

6. Some of the books cited have been mentioned in the Harry Potter novels or, more likely, in the two charity books: "Quidditch Through the Ages" and "Fantastic Beasts".

7. Edinburgh Royal Infirmary – actual place.

8. General practitioner – i.e. GP in the U.K., akin to a family doctor. While you would go to the casualty (or Accident & Emergency) department of a hospital for emergencies, if you were just a bit poorly, you'd go along to your local GP.

9. Maire – Irish name. Also, both of Seamus' parents are Irish, as far as I know, and the RC is still the official church of Eire, just in case you were wondering.


	5. Coatlaxopeuh

COATLAXOPEUH

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JK Rowling does.

SUMMARY: "This is not her world, she knows, for she has seen how Muggles live, and is this any different?" Ginny POV.

SERIES: Fifth in 'The Ceremony of Innocence'.

PAIRING: Severus Snape/Sirius Black for the series, Ginny Weasley/Draco Malfoy, Ginny Weasley/Tom Riddle.

RATING: R for underage m/f sex.

ARCHIVE: Nope.

Revised 16 May 2004.

NOTES:

Coatlaxopeuh (pronounced cuatla-supe): the Nahuatl word for "the one who has dominance over serpents". The snake-skirt goddess of Mexico was eventually metamorphosed into the Virgin of Guadalupe to suit the needs of the RC church.

Obsidian: a black, volcanic glass-like rock that splits to give a convex surface.

General kudos to 'La Frontera' (Anzaldua) and 'Gender Trouble' (Butler).

(YEAR FIVE: JANUARY)

Sometimes, when no one is looking, she steals a hand into her pocket and fingers a smooth glass bauble. Though she knows it is sinful and wicked, its glossy surface comforts her. Obsidian; _obsidianus lapis_; the mirror of the snake. It is where He resides.

Nobody notices her now. She is small and quiet, the beast within her trammelled, gagged, purged from her soul. She is in control; no remnant of Him here. No snake in her breast.

_Oh, but there is..._

She reads about snakes, now, every night when her Housemates are asleep. She reads red-clothed books in the dark, and her eyes glow hotly –_ or maybe you just think so, because you want it to be so. You want to be normal..._ – because there is magic here.

Her eyes glow, or, she thinks they do, so she hides them under her hands. She covers mirrors when she sees them, to stop her soul escaping. She reads books on snakes and women and waits for her Time, to dip fingers in the bright brown blood. Don't worry, Ginnydear, her mother says. When it's your Time, I'll teach you the charm to take care of the mess, Ginnydear; I'll do it when it's your Time.

The words run together, all in a rush. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, you mustn't, Ginnydear. Be a dear, Ginnydear, do as your told. Be a darling, Ginnydear, write home more often. Just to make sure you're well, dear, Ginnydear, just to make sure you're safe.

Don't walk alone, Ginnydear, or the snake might get you. He might take you away, Ginnydear, and have his wicked way. You wouldn't want that, would you, Ginnydear? Not to fall on your back on that cold stone, feel the blood seeping from you, Ginnydear, you musn't.

Her mother says something, maybe some words, maybe others. It doesn't matter. She hears them all like a waterfall in her head, like a slither across cold stone. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, never walk alone, Ginnydear, don't stay in the same room with strangers, Ginnydear, don't waste your time in diaries, Ginnydear, remember what happened?

No, mum, no, I don't remember, but she doesn't say it. Doesn't want to be told, doesn't want to hear it once more. It wasn't like that, not what you think, mum, it was awful, but it wasn't like that.

_Because you liked it, Ginnydear, you liked it..._

Oh, no, she had not. No, not to lose herself through fear and youth. Just a little girl, she had been, and her innocence had seeped out on that cold stone floor those many months in His embrace, and no one had known. Just a little girl, and look what she had done.

_Just think what you could do now, Ginnydear, when you are no longer dear. Just think._

She does not think of it. It is all she can do to keep a small glass bauble in her pocket to stroke when she is frightened.

Don't make me angry, she wants to say when she sees the boys push and shove each other in the corridor. Pale boy, dark boy, many boys with red hair like her own. Don't make me angry, but she doesn't. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, because everyone still calls her Ginnydear. Still pets her hair, or pulls it, or puts beetles in it while she's not looking at them. Ginnydear, all except one, who still calls her Miss Weasley in those same low tones. No pity from him, no, she feels her chest tighten whenever he is around. No pity in those black eyes.

She wraps fingers around the glossy ball in her pocket, fingertip over where the pupil would be if it were His eye. _Why does he look at you like that, Ginnydear? Why does he look at you like you're not dear?_ He is speaking, words words words in some sort of order, all coming together in her mind to form Ginnydear, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, like scales over stone. She beats a tattoo on the tabletop and waits for him to turn around.

Pay attention, Miss Weasley, he says, and _Ginnydear, Ginnydear_, she smiles. Pay attention, he says once more, before deciding she's mocking him. Pay attention after class, Miss Weasley, in detention, Miss Weasley, scrubbing cauldrons, Miss Weasley, and she's still smiling when the class is over and they're alone in the room.

Her fingers are still wrapped around the bauble in her pocket, eye unseeing against black cloth. I see things, Professor, she says, but cannot push the words past her lips.

She scrubs cauldrons and walks away unsatisfied, fingers tapping on that unseeing eye and wondering why he would not look at her.

It is not my Time, she decides, later, when the prying eyes have gone. It is not my Time. That is why he treats me so - _it's because when you're ripe, full, like a peach, Ginnydear, like the egg before the birth, he will see his death between your legs._

She looks in the mirror and watches her breasts fill out and wonders when her Time is. When she will see the life she could have made spill on to that stone floor and wonder, if she had been but a little older, if He a little more real, what terrible things he could have done to her.

It's enough what he did do, her mother thinks but does not say, no, will never say. It's enough what that monster did without interfering with my little baby, Ginnydear, spoiling her for others.

The yoke of respectability, of society, tightens on her neck. This is not her world, she knows, for she has seen how Muggles live, and is this any different? Her arms are still wrapped in cloth; her belly covered. Her breasts are still hidden under gauze and cotton and lace, and all her friends will talk about is boys boys boysboysboysboysboys, like boys and boys' toys and serpents in transparent scales are all that exist, and be careful, Ginnydear, or that serpent will ruin you, spoil you, that terrible serpent between their legs.

Her mother sat her down one night and explained it all, about boys and men and what girls were to do for children. _It won't be so terrible, Ginnydear_, her mother laughed, seeing her blank face and mistaking it for fear. _It's not terrible, don't be afraid, you'll want to_.

An almost imperceptible pause, then, _no, but even if you want to, you mustn't, do you understand? Ah, Ginnydear, you're a good girl_.

She does not say anything.

That night, she held the lapis against her belly and wished to form a child without the need of serpents.

My body is not my prison, she says to the mirror. If she splits the lapis open, two small mirrors will be formed, just large enough to see her eyes. If she splits that bauble open, if she looks inside, _it is not your prison, Ginnydear_, it is the soul that imprisons her.

I am a wild thing, and my soul is my prison. It traps my flesh. It forces the stink of mortality, of incorporeality on me, on my body, my body that it has formed to keep its prisoner here.

When she woke up one morning, things had changed. The waiting did not make her any more prepared for the change, not for the blood or for the spells her Housemates immediately showed her. No, nor for the titters of the older girls or her Housemistress's kind words. Ginnydear, Ginnydear, you're a woman now, Ginnydear, let me show you what to do, let me show you how you must live from now on.

Her arms are still covered, her ankles hidden under white socks, but they still know. They know. Walking into class that morning, they knew. Everyone looked at her; girls because they could see the change; boys because they couldn't. Everyone looked at her, because _you're a woman now, Ginnydear, and think what a woman could do,_ Ginnydear, Ginnydear, and she's still Ginnydear.

She washed her hands clean, scrubbing her nails red-raw while her Housemistress explained all the wonderful things she'd be able to do now, _Ginnydear_.

That night, she put the lapis in her mouth. She did not swallow.

A taste was enough.

_There is something wrong with Miss Weasley._

_I beg your pardon?_

_Minerva. There is something wrong with Miss Weasley. She is different._

_Well! I should think so. Or did you miss her menarche? Really, a little attention wouldn't be remiss -_

_Minerva._

_Yes?_

_There is something wrong with Miss Weasley._

There is a beast inside me, she wants to say, but cannot form the words. He – a snake, too, if only in name – waits patiently, because he knows that she will agree. It is what is expected. Hardly a fairytale, but it is what is expected. Everyone knows it, even her brothers, myriad red-headed boys resigned to the fate of accepting a snake into their midst. _There are so few with good blood,_ she can hear his father say, _so very few. This girl's family may be objectionable, but she is now of age. Of age, Draco, she will bear strong, pure-blooded children soon. _And her parents may not agree, may not want this, but it will happen anyway, just for a little while.

She will agree. It is what is expected.

He spends the moments waiting for her to say it thinking of what she will look like without that uniform on, though it may never come to that. Her breasts, he thinks, and cannot form any other thought for the mere idea stumps him. Her breasts, he tries again, then moves on to something he thinks he will understand, to her naked thighs, so much like his own.

She is smiling now, for his eyes linger on her hips and he imagines that terrible place between her legs from whence power comes.

Do you think your soul would trap me? She wonders. Do you think yourself strong enough? That pitiful serpent you would have me worship as the bringer of life, when we know, we know, we know he bows and slithers on the ground before me. Would you have me praise its paleness, the delicacy of its skin, the life it could bring? Yes, oh virile one, oh spoiled, stupid, pampered little child, slave to your soul and to that scrap of flesh the world revolves around, is this what you would try to conquer me with?

There is darkness beside her as she turns. Black eyes are watching them, measuring her, fixed on the black eye she holds in her hand.

I have to know, the boy says suddenly. He can feel the darkness approaching and is angry that what he wants might be taken away. He can't have her, so he'll stop me from having her, he thinks spitefully, and she cannot help but smile. This is what your soul would have me become, she wants to shout, and the eye laughs. This is what you would bind me to, this pettiness, worship the pale worm, the maleness of you, wondering if another would take away your pleasure out of spite. As if I could belong to you!

_Minerva. There is something very wrong with Ginny Weasley._

Dark eyes are fixed on her now, and she is laughing, laughing, opening up her palm to see the vein through the stone, black as spilled blood. It is her Time, her power in bloom, and she knows that those eyes would stop her, if she lets them. They'd stop her, both of them, call her Ginnydear and strap her down back inside her body, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, until the end of her days when beetles nest in her hair and flies feast on her flesh, Ginnydear, Ginnydear, locked by her soul when she could be so much more.

The boy steps forward and plants awkward lips against hers, tongue pushing clumsily into her mouth. She can feel her teacher's gaze, her brother's gaze, the eyes of all those walking in, fixed on her, hear them chanting, whorewhorewhorewhore slytherinwhore, words without end. She puts her arms around the boy's neck, hands open in supplication, eyes staring. The lapis is hot in her palm, flesh on flesh.

_You almost beat Him. Think what you could do with this little one._

If she splits it open and looks inside, what will she see?

_Come on, little snake..._

fin


End file.
